The Path of Sickly Moons
by ichigatsu
Summary: Simply leaving the darkness does not mean that one has embraced the light. Draco/Ron slash.
1. Impale Firelies

The Path of Sickly Moons  
  
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
Disclaimer 2: Title and Chapter Headings taken from Fatima Lim-Wilson's poem "The Love of Saints", found in her collection "Crossing the Snow Bridge."  
  
Warning: This fiction contains slash; that is, sexual/romantic situations between two male characters. Please do not read if this offends you. Flames will be considered as nothing more than a product of eating too much beans.  
  
Rating: NC-17 (for later chapters)  
  
Author's Notes: For Kacy, who wanted Harry/Draco smut but got this instead. I'm sorry. And to everyone else, I appreciate any kind of constructive criticism. I'm rather apprehensive about posting this as this is the first time I've ever published a fanfiction before.  
  
Part I: Impaling Fireflies  
  
Draco Malfoy hated the moon.  
  
She had been his only companion these past few days that he had been on the run; he figured that in his situation, it was better to cover as much ground quickly at night and rest during the day. As such, until tonight, the only light he had to guide his way were feeble moonbeams and faint starlight. Yet that had been enough, that fateful summer night that was barely a week ago yet seemed to belong to another lifetime. His fifteenth birthday.  
  
At the time, the moon had hung full and brilliant in the sky, and he felt as if he were running towards it. Running towards the light.  
  
But now, as he looked balefully up at the sky, the moon was nowhere to be found. The inky sky was clouded, giving no sign that the moon or the stars had ever been.  
  
And now he was even poorer than the Weasleys he had taunted. He had nothing save the clothes and Invisibility Cloak that he wore, the Nimbus 2001 that he rode, and the meager possessions he had managed to summon to his person before fleeing Malfoy Manor, perhaps forever.  
  
Draco scowled at the moon's absence, thinking of the events that led him here, huddled under a tree in a dark forest God-knew-where. He had never thought it would be this way. Almost from birth, he had assumed that he would be alongside his father, allying himself with Voldemort, fighting for the Dark Lord's cause. Not that he really believed in what Voldemort stood for—he really didn't care, one way or the other. What mattered to him was that it was what his father believed in. Draco trusted his father, so what Lucius thought was right, Draco believed in as well.  
  
Yet what Lucius so fervently believed in proved to be his downfall as well.  
  
There was only one thing in the world that Draco wanted, and that was to do his father and mother proud. His mother thought him wonderful no matter what happened; those of us who've had a mother know what that can be like. As for his father, well, there was only one way to do that, if your father was Lucius Malfoy. And he had been ready and willing to do it, ready to serve Voldemort. Once he had found out that the Dark Lord had risen, Draco had had no doubt in his mind that he would win over Dumbledore and Potter and their ragtag band of do-gooders. He had had no scruples about which side was right or wrong. All he was concerned about was which side would win in the end. He had pretty much told Potter that, on the train ride back home—and was heavily hexed as a result.  
  
Perhaps that had been his first clue that the Dark might not be the best side, after all.  
  
No matter; he had spent the weeks before his birthday brushing up on all the Dark Arts his father had passed onto him over the years. Draco had a keen mind and quite a bit of natural talent (although never enough to displace Hermione Granger from the top spot at Hogwarts, much to his chagrin), and was quite proficient at the many spells his father had taught him, as well as a few he hunted up himself. He was proud of his ability to cast some very difficult ones—Furtim Porticus (more effective and less detectable than using an Invisibility Cloak, although it took a lot out of the one casting it), the Patronus Spell (even though Dementors were Voldemort's natural allies, you never knew when one might decide to kiss you), Frangere Mens (nothing like driving your enemies mad). A few of them he even found rather amusing, such as Plasmodium falciparum and Paragonimus westermani—spells that infected the unfortunate victim with parasites of the same name. There were no counterspells; one had to take Muggle medicine, as fraught with uncertainty as it was, if one were to treat the infection. Although there were others far deadlier, his favourite parasite was Entamoeba histolytica.  
  
Of course, Lucius had also schooled his son in the Unforgivables, starting when the boy was in his third year. Draco had been quite adept at getting the family dog, Cerberus, to bring in The Daily Prophet when it was in a contrary mood. He felt a little guilty, for Cerberus had been a faithful pet and companion since he was a small boy, but justified it by saying no harm was done to the animal, anyway.  
  
Yet he had never cast the Cruciatus curse save once, when his father had asked him to practise one time in the Malfoy Manor owlery.  
  
Up until then, he never knew that a hoot could mean pain. For days after, those hoots rang in his ears, and he could not bring himself to cast Cruciatus again.  
  
As for Avada Kedavra, Draco knew only of the theory. Even Lucius conceded that his son needed a bit more knowledge before he could cast this spell successfully. Apparently, that summer, his father had decided that Draco knew enough.  
  
Two days before his birthday, Draco had been called down to Lucius's study. He had wondered what for; perhaps it had to do with his initiation into the service of the Dark Lord. Up until then, his father had been very secretive about what was involved when one received the Dark Mark.  
  
Draco remembered how his father had looked when he entered, a tall and regal figure silhouetted against a fire. He had cleared his throat, but Lucius had not acknowledged his presence, and had continued to stare moodily into the flickering flames. Cerberus had been at his side, looking just as stately at his master.  
  
Finally, after a long silence, he had said, "Do you remember what I have taught you about the Killing Curse?"  
  
"Of course, Father." Draco had been refreshing his memory with research on it, lately, for he knew it would be absolutely necessary once he was part of Voldemort's company.  
  
"It is time to put that knowledge of yours to the test, boy. For you will be joining our master in a matter of days—in fact, right after your fifteenth birthday. But you must prove yourself, of course."  
  
"How, Father?"  
  
Lucius had finally turned around, a small smile on his stern face. "You will find out. But right now, I must see to it that you are absolutely ready. The Killing Curse, Draco." He patted Cerberus on the head, then stepped away into the shadows.  
  
"What about it, Father?"  
  
"Must you have everything spelled out for you? I want to see if you are powerful enough to cast the Killing Curse." He had gestured towards the dog.  
  
"Now? On Cerberus?"  
  
"Have you suddenly gone daft, boy?" Lucius said.  
  
"But Father, it's Cerberus—I—"  
  
"It's a dog, Draco. A thing meant for our enjoyment and service. Surely it can't be that hard to get rid of it?"  
  
"Of—of course not."  
  
"Well, go on then. Let's see you do it."  
  
The Killing Curse was a simple enough spell, of course—simple in the sense that the words were easy to pronounce and remember, and there was almost no wand movement involved. In fact, all one had to do was point the wand straight at whatever—or whoever—one wanted dead. What made Avada Kedavra so difficult was that the wizard casting it had to want to kill. One had to completely let go of one's negative emotions, let them run through the wand and let their darkness wreak havoc on the unfortunate victim. One had to want whatever it was dead so badly that one would be entirely consumed by the thought while one was casting the spell.  
  
Draco had not wanted to kill Cerberus.  
  
In fact, at that moment, he had realised that he did not want to kill anything or anyone.  
  
But he had known that his father would not let him out of the study until Cerberus lay cold on the floor. He had tried to replace Cerberus with something else in his mind, but found nothing. As much as they annoyed him, he didn't want even the insufferable trio of Weasley, Granger, and Potter dead.  
  
He felt no hate.  
  
He felt nothing.  
  
"Avada Kedavra!" he had cried out, and a jet of green light had shot out from his wand, hitting Cerberus.  
  
The dog yelped and rubbed his nose, then looked at Draco as if to say, "What did you do that for?" He trotted over to Lucius, eyeing Draco with disfavour. Lucius patted the dog on the head, but the expression on his face was far removed from that genial gesture.  
  
"Sit," he commanded Draco, pointing to one of the armchairs before the fire.  
  
Draco promptly sat.  
  
"You have performed far better than I could have expected of you, Draco," his father said, pacing before the fireplace. "There have been few curses that you did not cast on your first try. And as such, the arsenal of magic you have is formidable—no thanks to that crackpot school your mother insists I send you to. When I was your age, half the spells you have at your employ were as yet unknown to me."  
  
Where was this going? Draco wondered.  
  
His father turned to face him. "But there was one curse I always prided myself on, and it is one that the Dark Lord always requires of his followers before they enter his service. After I killed my first Muggle, that was when I was deemed worthy to become a Death Eater."  
  
Draco tried to arrange his features into the most humbled look he could assume. From the look on his father's face, he knew it wasn't working.  
  
"You have mastered every bit of magic I have asked you to. But the Killing Curse—so simple! So easy for one such as yourself! If you cannot perform that, what is to become of you?"  
  
"I don't know, Father."  
  
"What went wrong, Draco?"  
  
God, he didn't know.  
  
"I can try again," Draco offered hesitantly.  
  
Lucius ignored this. "You know how to do it. You've filled your mind with little else these past weeks. What went wrong?"  
  
Draco looked down at the ground, then at Cerberus, who was still blissfully unaware that it had narrowly escaped death. "I suppose it was that I didn't want Cerberus to die, Father. And so I couldn't kill him."  
  
"What you feel for the dog is of no consequence," Lucius said. "Answer me this—how does the Killing Curse kill?"  
  
"It kills using the power of the one casting it," Draco answered, as if he were reading straight from a textbook. "The incantation provides a point of focus for the caster to channel all his or her negative emotions towards the target. The force of the power kills the target as a result."  
  
"So it's not ignorance that's plaguing you. And no Malfoy ever lacked power, least of all a son of mine." Lucius stepped back, pointed his wand at the dog, and said, "Avada Kedavra!" Cerberus fell down, obviously dead.  
  
"What part of that can't you do?" Lucius asked, kicking the dog to one side.  
  
"I said the words, but nothing came out," Draco said. "I don't know what I did wrong."  
  
"And there lies your problem," Lucius said. "You said the words. That is all you did, Draco. Never mind the dog. Never mind that you did not want the dog dead. Is there not enough control in you for you to tap into your feelings? The Killing Curse is about wielding your emotions as a tool. It is about bringing out your hate and your anger, and letting it destroy your enemies rather than destroy yourself. I have taught you all about control. The rest—letting your emotions do the work—is up to you."  
  
"I have no emotions," Draco blurted out, belatedly realising that he had said this out loud.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"I—I feel nothing, Father. There is nothing in me to control."  
  
Draco expected his father to toss him out of the study, yell at him, disown him—something. It would be unpleasant, but he would have been able to handle it. Instead, his father dropped down before him, looking him straight in the eye.  
  
"What about those schoolmates of yours that you claim to hate so much? Potter, Weasley? Enemies of our own lord?"  
  
In for a Knut, in for a Galleon, he supposed. "I guess I just don't hate them enough, Father. They annoy me, certainly, but…" he trailed off lamely.  
  
Lucius said nothing, only stared at his son as if he were fatally flawed. The scrutiny was unnerving, and Draco dared not say anything.  
  
"Well," Lucius finally broke the silence. "This certainly changes things, but…go up to your room, Draco. And think on what happened tonight."  
  
He had obeyed his father's command, just like he did every time. And in fact, he could think of little else.  
  
How was he to face the Dark Lord now?  
  
And what was his father going to say? 


	2. Axe-wound

Disclaimers, warnings, rating:  See previous.

Author's notes:  Thanks so much to all the people who reviewed favourably!  Hope this chapter meets yr standards as well.  If things are wonky, well…let's just say that my understanding of the male psyche is limited to that of Filipino males.  Nineteen years of being with them and they still baffle me to this day.

To my thesis mates, Carlo and Alysees, who will probably never read this but deserve a mention because I should be fixing the page numbers on our thesis instead.  And to Kacy once again.  I will give you yr Harry/Draco smut.  I promise.

WildfireFriendship: Of course.  I refuse to have my Draco any other way. ~_^

Part II: Axe-wound 

_What went wrong?_

_I feel nothing._

_What part of that can't you do?_

_There is nothing in me to control._

            Draco kicked his door open in frustration.  That certainly couldn't have gone any worse.  It would have been better if his father had yelled, blustered, done anything instead of looking at him silently as if he had been born hideously deformed.  This was the only thing he ever really wanted—winning at Quidditch, getting good grades, he knew none of these would compare to the pride his father would feel once he took his place by his father's side as a Death Eater.  The one thing he wanted to give to his father, and he could not give it back.

_What is to become of you?_

_I don't know._

_What about those schoolmates of yours that you claim to hate so much?_

_I don't hate them enough._

            He lay down on his bed, absent-mindedly twirling his wand with his fingers.  It was true, too—Weasley, Granger, and Potter annoyed the hell out of him, and it was always entertaining to see them put down, but Draco didn't hate them.  They were like scabs—unsightly, hurt like bloody hell, yet so much fun to peel off and flick away.  Weasley, especially.  Potter and Granger were easy scabs; one good jab with your nail and they were gone.  But Weasley clung, stuck, stung, bled, left those awful bits of skin around the edges that were almost as fun to remove as the scab itself.

            But no one in their right minds actually hated scabs enough to make them want to kill anything.

            Well, there had to be something he felt strongly about.  And he had better figure it out soon, for he had less than forty-eight hours before his meeting with the Dark Lord.

            There.  Fear.  Normally, Draco would never admit to being afraid, but it was the only thing he had to hold on to right now.

            He let his imagination run wild.  He thought of all the horrible things Voldemort could do to him if he didn't pass muster as a Death Eater.  That Asian curse he heard his father speak so much of—Death of a Thousand Cuts, or something.  The perversions Voldemort could force on him under Imperius.  Hours, perhaps even days of Cruciatus.  And maybe, even the source of all this trouble, the Killing Curse itself.

            Surely that would inspire enough terror for him to cast Avada Kedavra?

            Only one way to find out.

            "Avada Kedavra!" he said, pointing his wand upwards.

            A lizard that formerly inhabited his ceiling plopped down on his bed, missing a large chunk of its tail but looking none the worse for wear.

            "Dammit."

            The lizard leapt at Draco's face, licked his nose, and leapt away again.

            "Eurgh.  Dammit."

            He wiped the small trail of slime off his face.  What else could Voldemort possibly do to him?  Make him really, truly afraid?  His father never really said much about—

            His father.  Having a failed Death Eater for a son would surely have repercussions for Lucius, maybe Narcissa as well.  And, little as he knew about the whole business, Draco knew that Voldemort did not take failure lightly.  How would the Dark Lord reward a servant who could not raise another one fit to be in his service?  In the end, it might not be Draco who would bear the brunt of failing.

            He would not fail.

            "Avada Kedavra," he said, his voice shaking slightly.

            A spider fell down, and lay absolutely still on the ground.

More author's notes: Know it's awfully short.  This is what I get for writing when my conscience screams at me to study for my finals.


End file.
